


¿cómo no te voy a querer?

by kaixo (ballpoint)



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Gen, Liverpool F.C., Real Madrid CF, The Ache in Your Legs Footy Ficathon, Transfer Window
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-17
Updated: 2014-09-17
Packaged: 2018-02-17 19:51:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2321321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ballpoint/pseuds/kaixo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt for the comm 'The Ache In Your Legs' a footie ficthathon</p><p> </p><p>Alternative universe fic: Stevie/Xabi. Stevie transfers to real madrid in 2010 when Mourinho wanted him so Liverpool can be saved with the stupid money Madrid pays for him. Xabi has to teach him about Real Madrid  politics. up to you if it ends well or not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	¿cómo no te voy a querer?

**Author's Note:**

> A lot of the stuff written about here is based on unsubstantiated gossip and rumour that flew around Jose Mourinho's stint whilst managing Real Madrid. I've changed some things for the sake of plot. But if you can, read the rumours re: Mourinho's stint at Real, how he lost the Real Madrid dressing room, the fallout during el clasico wars between him and Pep Guardiola. Those are mental. There's some swearing in this fic. Also, this fic makes a nod to the rumours flying around Steven Gerrard circa 2010 and the alleged injunction he took out against _The News of the World_. Injunctions don't work that way (I know), but I'm handwaving law for this fic. 
> 
>   **disclaimer: This is not a favourable look at Real Madrid's practices and the reactions of the players under the Reign of Jose Mourinho. I'm posting a caveat here, because the fic gotten some good, strong concrit in comments, and I hate deleting work, especially for a prompt fill. When I can find some time, I will rewrite and repost saying as such. Thanks!**
> 
> **ETA- 02/10/2014 : work's been retweaked and edited. Thanks for the concrit, shoutouts to itsacoco from ontd_fb and theseparatedcities (Real Madridistas to this Real Sociedad supporter) for the help. **

_“We all change wives and husbands, tastes, political ideas, The only thing that never changes is your football team.”_  
-Javier Marias

In the way of these things, the red tops picked up the news first. A murmur in a side column, three pages from the back _Steven Gerrard leaving the Kop for Real Madrid?_

The rumour shushed, with this terse response from Liverpool: _Steven Gerrard has no wish to leave, and we have no reason to sell. There will be no further comment on this matter_

Only to pop up, in threes, like toadstools after a rainfall.

**Take with a grain or tub of salt: Steven Gerrard to Real Madrid?**  
 _English footballers aren’t known to travel well, but rumour has it that Steven Gerrard might be following in the footsteps of ex teammate Michael Owen - and try his luck at Real Madrid. Michael Owen didn’t take to Madrid with his time as a blanco, if you remember, but Gerrard fancies having a go. Of course, this is from Marca, so adjust your salt levels accordingly._

**England Footballer Files Superinjunction**

_An English footballer filed an injunction in the court this morning. For legal reasons he cannot be named, nor can any of the details of story be printed. According to rumours, the English camp has been rocked by the bust up between Steven Gerrard and John Terry about the captain’s armband in the World Cup and England’s limping exit from it. Stories are going around that it might be Steven Gerrard trying to cap rumours about his personal life as it relates to his position with his sponsors. Other revelations might be of Peter Crouch and the allegations with a call girl._

_We can’t say anything, but this doesn’t mean that you can’t speculate, oh readers. Answers on a postcard, who did what with whom?_

**The Daily Mail, August 29, 2010: Jose Mourinho Gets His Man**

_Six years after seeking out Steven Gerrard’s services and having his advances scorned the first time around, Jose Mourinho, the newly appointed coach of Real Madrid and ex Chelsea manager, finally got Steven Gerrard to say yes. According to sources, Xabi Alonso- Gerrard’s ex- Liverpool teammate who left the Kop to go the Real Madrid in 2009- was instrumental in convincing Gerrard to depart from his boyhood club, and make the switch to the Bernabéu. Alonso said in June of this year, “Stevie is of such quality, that his style can be suited to any club. Be it Liverpool or Real Madrid. We made a very good partnership together in the midfield at Liverpool, and it would be my hope that we can do it here. He just needs to arrive first.”_  
 _It is well known that Gerrard has been exasperated with the recent turns of fortune at Liverpool. From the halcyon days of the European Championship trophy that he hosted in 2005, to a stunning run of form that continued until 2009, Liverpool has seen better days. Gerrard is dismayed at Liverpool’s languishing at 7th place in the Premiere League, which takes the club out of Champions League competitions for at least the next year. He’s is hungry for silverware, but with Liverpool’s problems right now concerning cash flow, the air around the club is more akin to a fire sale than reinvestment.  
Given England’s limping out of the 2010 World Cup, the less than warm relations with John Terry, as well as the storm of rumours around his personal life, sources say that the offer came at the right time. _

**El Pais: Something English This Way Comes**

_Jose Mourinho, Portuguese el míster of Real Madrid, newly arrived from England, has declared an Englishman with him at customs. Steven Gerrard, central midfielder for England, and his former boyhood club, Liverpool, will be joining the squad for the 2010 season on a three year contract. The terms of the deal from Liverpool to Madrid haven’t been disclosed, but it is thought that Real Madrid paid £30 million for the release clause to take effect, including targets and various bonuses. ___

__**Chapter 1** _ _

__Steven Gerrard, former talisman of Liverpool, stepped out into the Bernabéu for the first time.  
The stadium grander than pictures could give a hint to. More like the Roman Coliseums of old: large enough that your eyes needed to scan and continue scanning just to take in everything. The 90,000 seat stadium, mostly empty, because he wasn’t a marquee player like David Beckham had been, the sun shining on his back and shoulders. He tried a winning smile and a wave, and it felt too tight, too crooked. A smattering of applause greeted his pantomime of tricks with the ball, but most of the audience stared at him behind their sunshades, the sunlight dancing at the edges of them, making them look robotic and distant. Not for the first time, since he signed the contract, Steven again wondered what the feck he was doing here. No, that was a lie, he knew why. _ _

__He knew it on the day he charged his lawyers to block the story from _The News of the World_ _ _

___-four weeks ago_ _ _

__“Spain.” The word not in the form of a question, as much as prickly hauteur, as Alex poured herself a glass of wine, elbows supporting her frame as she leaned against the kitchen island. With the tip of a manicured finger, she traced the lip of the wine glass, her wedding ring catching the light and fragmenting it into the flash given to small stars. Even though night had fallen outside, Alex still dressed as if she just got in from the gym. Soft marled grey jumper slipping off her shoulder, the deep purple of her sports bra strap on show. Dark leggings, and sports trainers completed the look, her hair bundled in a ponytail on top of her head._ _

__“It’s not a discussion, pet. It really isn’t.”_ _

__“And if I don’t want to go?” Alex asked, keeping her voice low as not to disturb the girls sleeping upstairs, but the resentment in her tone gave her words enough of an edge for Steven to be wary._ _

__Steven might have laughed if the situation hadn’t been so dire. “You want to stay here and brace for the onslaught? With the English press? They’ll savage you.”_ _

__“And you,” she lifted her gaze from the deep red of the wine in the glass, her eyes sparking with anger, her voice cold and cutting like the stone in her wedding ring. “Like they aren’t sniffing around you too. Especially with the dire World Cup you lot have had.”_ _

__At this point in time, with everything going on, the insult didn’t sting as much, Steven told himself. Turning to the fridge, he opened the door, looking at the grid of foodstuffs and drinks that Alex had there, and reached for one of the box juices the children got in their lunch boxes. Closed the fridge, stuck the straw in it and took a sip. Hmmm, apple and blackcurrant juice._ _

“All the better for us to leave. You know other chances have come up, and I passed on them, Alex,” because despite everything, he still wanted to get her on side. “It would be a good experience for the girls, learning a different language, living in a different place...” 

__Alex tugged at her jumper, covering her shoulder, and took a sip of her wine. He watched her throat work, as she swallowed._ _

__“It’s not for them,” she said at last, her eyes dark with emotion, her voice still even. “It’s not even for me, but you. Admit it. Admit it and I will go.”_ _

__“It’s for the best, Alex. Don’t try and make it harder than it needs to be.”_ _

__She didn’t respond to his high handed tone, but Steven knew better than thinking he’d won this one. Alex drew herself up, finished her glass of wine in a few big gulps. Then, as if she suddenly realised she was being watched all this time, she put the glass down slowly on the counter, and wiped at her lips as if she were doing an advertisement for the wine she drank. “We’ll go,” she pushed herself away from the kitchen island, her blonde ponytail loosening with the slight toss of her head. “You say yes, I’ll make the arrangements.”_ _

__

__Before Steven said yes to Jose Mourinho and Real Madrid, he’d never met the man. Saw him on TV like the rest of the people in the Premier League, and when they played against the plastic chavs on Stamford Road, knew the figure he cut when he prowled along the sidelines, coat sweeping against his legs. Some fans from Manchester United claimed the coat he wore came from Matalon instead of Armani- a tacky manager for a tacky side- but eh, Manchester United fans, you could never tell with _them_. Once he said yes, they’d skyped and exchanged pleasantries over the phone, but never in person._ _

“What’s he like?” Steven had asked Xabi when he first landed, as they shared lunch in a tapas bar in one of those tiny, pleasant, secret places Xabi discovered in his first year here. _La Latina_ , Xabi took the time to explain, an old area of Madrid. With narrow streets thrown into shadows, and shaded patios. Now deep in thought, Xabi stroked his beard, the biggest physical change he’d embraced since he’d left Liverpool. At Liverpool, he’d flitted between scruff and clean shaven. His beard now flourished, ginger and full, more like an old fashioned gentleman in Madrid- one of those blokes you’d find on the back of a book, than an ex player from the Kop. “He’s smart,” Xabi finally answered as he sipped at his beer, “his methods are unorthodox.” 

“Yeah, I get that,” Steven speared a chunk of boar with his fork. “The email about his code of conduct and his expectations might have been a flag.” That on top of the contract he’d signed.  
Barking. 

“I think that’s something you should find out yourself, I wouldn’t want to...” Xabi frowned into his drink, trying to find the word and settling for a sentence instead. “Influence your judgement.”  
Yeah, that was the Xabi Alonso Steven had gotten to know towards the end when he decided to put in for a transfer from Liverpool. Cagey, almost closed off. Steven gently kicked at his leg under the table, and Xabi’s features thawed into a smile. 

“Oi,” Steven joked, “we’re friends, right? If Mourinho sacrifices tiny animals, or makes us train only in our jock straps with people having orgies on the sidelines, you’d let me know, right?”  
Xabi huffed a laugh at this, his eyes flashing with humour, raising his pilsner glass of beer in salute. “I missed you, Stevie, I’m glad that you’re here.”  
“I missed you, too,” Steven could freely admit through gulps of food. “I’m glad I’m here, too.” 

***

“Steven!” Mourinho greeted, with a firm handshake and friendliness as he turned up to the training ground at Cuidad Real Madrid on the first day.

“Jose,” Steven shook his hand, struck immediately by the fact that Jose Mourinho looked and sounded exactly like you thought he would. TV cameras could exaggerate, and seeing him across the dugout while warring against his side didn’t really give him a bead on the man and magazines tended to photoshop pictures into stark difference. Not with Jose Mourinho, though. Olive skinned darkened to a deep, even tan that Alex probably envied in secret, topped by that famous sweep of salt and pepper hair, and his mouth twitching in amusement at a secret joke. His accent- again, the same. 

“My star midfielder,” Mourinho rubbed his hands briskly as if caught by cold. “I remember seeing the work you and Xabi did for Liverpool. Magnificent. His cool clinical qualities to your English fire, beautiful team work. I do hope we can do the same thing here, and I’m sure we can. _Hein_? How are you finding Madrid so far? Are you happy?" 

“Yes,” Steven nodded, “we’ve settled, we’re eager to go. Xabi has been a big help in getting us settled in.” 

__“Good, good,” Jose nodded once, as if he expected nothing less. “Your wife- Alex, isn’t it? And your daughters?”_ _

__“Yes, well remembered. And I’m good, thanks.”  
“I hope Alex knows, that her only job here is to make you happy,” Mourinho punctuated his statement with his finger punctuating each word. Steven didn’t know if Mourinho was joking _Alex would have some choice words about that_ , or if he were serious. “Erm...” Steven said, not knowing how to answer this, so he plumped for humour. “I’ll pass it on,” he said to Mourinho’s laughter, as he looked at the fabled training ground for the first time. Melwood, although adequate, seemed a bit boxed off by the nearby houses, whereas this ground- no, _grounds_ stretched for as far as he could look. Steven had read the bumf, on the grounds, ten times bigger than the old grounds, forty times bigger than the Bernabéu. But nothing prepared him for this._ _

__Although they’d come out early, the temperature already shot the mercury high enough for Steven to come out in short sleeves and shorts._ _

__Already, Cristiano Ronaldo was on the ground, shooting balls at the net. And hey, look at him, having Cristiano Ronaldo as a teammate, a true _galáctico_. Sure, they’d played against each other in the English league, Manchester United and Liverpool had their memorable games, and a long and ugly rivalry- but Ronaldo was no where near the footballing superstar then like he was now. Ronaldo stopped in mid lope, and Steven, because he could be polite- now that they were on the same team, after all- waved._ _

__Only for Ronaldo to give a short wave, something more along the lines of acknowledgement, but not wanting to be dissuaded from the task at hand, continuing with his run up to the spot where the ball marked, in front of the practice mannequins in front of the goal. Steven watched Ronaldo’s movements, smooth and sure as he went for the spot kick, hitting the ball on the sweet spot of his laces. It rose, curling out and up up up before doubling on itself and hitting the top corner of the net. Swish._ _

__He would have clapped, as a fellow penalty kicker, Steven recognised quality, and Ronaldo by any stripe, had it in spades. But the sharp look Ronaldo had sent in his direction made him drop his hands, and rest them on his hips. “Ah, Cristiano,” Mourinho said, with the easy dismissal of a man jaded to the quality in his midst, as Ronaldo put the shots in again and again. “I don’t have to make introductions, yes?” Mourinho questioned, his tone of voice implying that with Cristiano, if he didn’t have to speak to him, he wouldn’t._ _

__“No,” Steven said, because he was a big, boy, wasn’t he? “I’ll find my way around.”_ _

__The first morning training generally light, due to introductions with the new players to be blooded in, and some of the team’s players - the Germans and the Spaniards especially- were still on holiday from the World Cup. Claps all around, and it was a novel thing thing to train in hot weather -not having to travel to Portugal to go and do it off season. Training dismissed, everyone slinked to the showers, and it was all a bit of first day after school. A lot of time spent trying to find things, not to be too overawed by the same dressing room where Zizou, Ronaldo, Figo, Alfredo di Stefano... time passed by too easily, and by the time he got out, Steven wasn’t surprised to see the car park empty- save the sleek Lamborghini Aventador- and Cristiano Ronaldo seated in it, his eyes hidden by mirrored shades that seemed to be the height of Spanish style._ _

__“Gerrard,” he greeted, gesturing Steven over, as he threw open his car door and stepped out, dressed down in jeans and a top._ _

__“Cristiano,” Steven said, hitching his adidas duffel bag on his shoulder (nice to know that he didn’t have to change sponsors), car keys in hand. “Saw you taking your penalty kicks back there, good stuff.”_ _

__“Yeah,” Cristiano shrugged his shoulders, thinking nothing more of it, because to him it was practice; repetition and the pursuit of perfection, you looked past the aesthetics and only saw the angles of where they were going to go. “About this morning,” he said without preamble, as he pushed his glasses off his eyes into his hair. “I wasn’t ignoring you, you know that, right?”_ _

__Steven did the English thing- when in doubt- be polite. “You were busy, it’s understandable.”_ _

__“We’re teammates now, and what happened in England, is passed,” with his accent, passed came out as pass-ed. “ We’re on the same side, we wear the same crest, _Hala Madrid_. How are you finding Spain?”_ _

__“It’s erm...Spain,” Steven found himself at a loss for words. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t known Cristiano Ronaldo when they crossed paths for the title race in England. For the six years he wore the Man U strip, Cristiano turned himself into a legend, and his transfer to Real Madrid only burnished everything he had already been. His goals, his free kicks, his athleticism, his consistency- Ronaldo was all quality. In addition, Wayne had considered Cristiano friendly enough for introductions, when their paths crossed on the international scene, and they lined up opposite each other in the dugout before coming on to the field, but even with that, you weren’t necessarily close to the lads from other teams but your own. Besides, after that wink back in 2006, and the kerfuffle around it that got Wayne Rooney sent off in the Euros of that year, directly impacting England’s chances, along with Liverpool’s own team dramas, they couldn’t have been closer than what they were. So Cristiano’s waving him off this morning didn’t bother him at all._ _

__“I understand,” Cristiano nodded, “I lived in England too. The evenings are longer here, people are out more, I think your girls will enjoy it, yes?”_ _

__“I hope so,” and that was a fervent wish, despite and above every other reason. “We have them enrolled in school and - yeah,” Steven softened, his brow furrowed. “If they like it here, everything’s worth it.”_ _

__“Okay. Um, about Mourinho- I. You’ll find out for yourself. Listen, just take care, okay? This isn’t the English league, and Real Madrid isn’t Chelsea.”_ _

__“Blueshites, I’m from Liverpool, remember?”_ _

__Cristiano’s lips tugged into that half smirk he did, his teeth a white curve against the deep brown of his skin. “I remember. Scouser, right? Just- look after yourself. ”_ _

__“Yeah,” Steven said, suddenly wishing they’d been a bit friendlier so he could have pushed Cristiano a bit more, but considering their shared history, Cristiano did plenty. “Thanks.”__

 _ _***__

 _ _“No, _perdón_ , no...” Steven’s brain drew a blank, as he tried to find words. “ _No querido ése_ -” he pointed to his drink, “because this is- shit.”_ _

__At the bar staff’s horrified look, Steven shook his head. “No, I didn’t mean shit- as in the drink’s shit. I mean- _¿Cómo si dice?_ ” Steven shook his head, “Ah, never mind, _Es Bien_ ,” he took a sip of the chocolate milk she bought him, and waved her off. “I’ll be fine. _Gracías_ ”_ _

__A month in, and he still hadn’t made way with the language as much as he thought he might have. He also hadn’t made as much leeway with his teammates as he thought would have either, his run in with Iker Casillas being a memorable one, which happened a few nights ago._ _

__He’d found out that as a new Real Madrid player, it was a tradition to buy his teammates lunch, at some old restaurant that he still couldn’t remember the name of (because you know, that shagging Spanish again) but it was impressive. Dated from the days of priests in the old empire before the Spanish Infanta gave Christopher Columbus permission and money to go discover the New World and so on. It had the feeling of being in the catacombs, with silent staff serving all manner of cured meats and fresh vegetarian dishes. Steven and the other newbies - two German lads, Ozil and Khedira, along with Di Maria and Carvahlo sat together, but Di Maria and Carvahlo were already conversing by themselves in Spanish, whereas Ozil and Khedira were jabbering on in German. Xabi and Alvaro were over with the other players, having some seniority being a year blooded into Real Madrid, and not needing to sit at the children’s table, like he did._ _

__Well, Steven chastised himself, he really should have tried harder to learn Spanish when Benitez and the lads were at the Kop. Because the language still sounded like white noise to him now.  
In between courses the players were allowed and encouraged to circulate in an adjoining room with a wet bar, to be called back in after the table had been cleared and reset with the dessert course, so Steven made his way to Iker Casillas. _ _

__He was drinking, speaking animatedly with Sergio Ramos, their hands gesticulating as each man made his point. They seemed fired up about something, speaking in hushed voices. Steven thought he heard the name Jose and shrugged. After his go around with Benitez, he could understand players letting off some steam when it came to managers, even though he didn’t want to assume._ _

__Undeterred, he pressed on, because well, he should introduce himself to Iker, right? On paper, they seemed to have things in common, coming up from youth leagues to breaking into the first team at their respective clubs -- and wore the Captain’s armband for their respective clubs. Correction- Steven broke away from his and was now- here without an armband, and essentially a new boy still trying to find his way around a new school._ _

__“Hola,,” he started, “¿No creo que nosssss...conocemos?” Crap, he hope he got it right. “Mi llam-”_ _

__“I know who you are,” Iker Casillas interrupted in strongly accented English. “Steven Gerrard. Liverpool, right?” In his accent, it sounded like _Leerpool_ , but Steven had been around enough Spaniards by now not to take the mispronunciation as an insult, unlike some other supporters from other teams, who would make up all sorts of insulting rhyming slang for Liverpool. _ _

__“I- yes,” Steven said, “I’ve seen you around in training and well, we’ve never really chatted, so I thought-”_ _

__“Yes. I am sorry about that, we Spanish, we were on-” Iker squinted his eyes, as he tried to find the word. “On extra holiday, from the World Cup? You know how it goes.”_ _

___No,_ Steven wanted to say, _I don’t_. He wanted to ask what it had been like, touching the trophy, did the air change? What did it feel to be the best in the world at that moment? And when you kissed it, holding the trophy aloft, with your country and year etched into the base, how did it feel? But. Those were questions that he hadn’t even asked Xabi. Sure, he sent a text of congratulations, and had been happy for him, but it hadn’t been his joy to share. _ _

__“Congratulations,” he said, feeling like a right tit, his throat tightening at every word. “The best side won.”_ _

__The smile Iker sent him short of smug, and again, fair play, Steven would have been the same way if their places were traded. You didn’t reach this level by treating your chosen sport like a Sunday kick about._ _

__“I’m sure I see you on the field,” Iker said, gesturing to the man beside him. Not as tall as Iker, a bit younger, broader in body, his hair slicked back from his face and held in place with an Alice Band. Oh, David Beckham had a lot to answer for. “You know Sergio?”_ _

__“By reputation,” again, handshakes all around. Sergio a lot more friendlier, his English a lot better. But still, but still._ _

__The rest of the dinner passed like this, Steven feeling a bit resentful when it came time for him and the new boys to split the cheque for this meal._ _

__“Chocolate milk?” Xabi’s voice pulled Steve back into the present. “Oh,” Xabi asked, as he started looking around the little bar. “Are your girls here?”_ _

__“No,” Steven rolled his eyes. “It’s for me. I thought I ordered a milky coffee with chocolate sprinkles? Joke’s on me.”_ _

__Laughing, Xabi waved over the bar girl, and in brisk Spanish, ordered what Steven wanted. “At least you’re trying!” he said, patting Steven on his arm as they both stood alongside the bar, in the mid afternoon. Also, Steven didn’t know how to ask for an outside seat, but he thought that he’d keep that to himself._ _

__“It’s shocking,” Steven shook his head morosely, “I find myself asking Lilly- Ella, ‘read this for Daddy’ and she does. Somewhat. Better than me anyways.”_ _

__“Children,” Xabi agreed. “We speak Euskara to the little ones at home, and they learn Spanish in school and get along fine. Gracías,” Xabi broke off, as Steven’s coffee got served to him in a tall glass, with his chocolate sprinkles._ _

__“Erm. I think I’m going to break down and get Spanish lessons. Real have offered me a translator, but I don’t need anyone hanging around me like a tit, but I need to do better.”_ _

__“It will take time.”_ _

__“You knew English when you came to Liverpool,” Steven pointed out. “Enough to hold a press conference and just get stuck in. I can barely speak to my teammates, or when I do, they pretend that they can’t understand me.”_ _

__“This- well, Real isn’t like Anfield.”_ _

__“I know that, mate,” Steven said, as he pushed his chocolate drink to one side and started on his coffee. “Don’t I know.”_ _

__**Chapter 2.** _ _

__The season in La Liga got underway in earnest with Jose Mourinho. First game against RCD Mallorca.  
Steven ran, the noise of the Madridistas loud enough to crowd into his thoughts, to push his legs on. His heart beating, as he received passes from Xabi and shot them forward. Ronaldo the goal scorer, and everything played to Ronaldo. Slid into a tackle, dispossessing the ball from the red shirt. Hitting and sliding on the turf with a _whoof_. Quick as thought, shifting to his sheet, ball in play, forward. The din from the crowd, a living, breathing thing, as Steven surged forward- only to get his feet swept away from under him._ _

__The piercing blast of the whistle cut the air, the match finished, nil all. The crowd’s cheers now mutated into jeers, whistling and white towels. Real Madrid hadn’t performed, and to be brought low against such a lowly opponent, the fans now quick to show their displeasure. Steven half hugged the guy he had marked nodding because it had been a good game, regardless. The red shirted player smiled at him and said in halting English, “Señor Gerrard? It is an honour to play against you. Can we exchange shirts?”_ _

__Shrugged, because why not, as his fingers toyed with the hem, only for someone’s hand to tighten around his wrist. Steven looked and went, “Xabi?” who gave a dismissive gesture to the Mallorcan player, following it up by saying something in Spanish Steven couldn’t get, and properly chastened, the player slinked off._ _

__“Oi, what’s that about?”_ _

__“Real Madrid is the best, Stevie,” Xabi said, “we should conduct ourselves accordingly.”_ _

__“And me exchanging my shirt-”_ _

__“Not with any of them, it’s a new rule under Mourinho,” Xabi threw a hand around Steve’s shoulders as they walked off the field. Both were hot and sweaty from their endeavours and the late, warm August night didn’t help. But Steven didn’t mind, slinging his hand around Xabi’s waist, as they made their way to the showers, weary combatants coming of their battle field. “It’s different here,” Xabi’s voice, slurred by his physical exertions reached his ears over the screams of the spectators. “Team, culture, country. We’re the kings of Madrid, and the Bernabéu, and no one else matters. It’s enough that we play them, and nothing more.”_ _

__“That’s-” Steven tried to get his head around it, and settled on, “that’s a bit wank. I’ve seen shirts exchanged, and Casillas gives his jerseys away.”_ _

__“That’s Casillas,” Xabi said, and Steven frowned, not for the first time, getting the feeling that he was missing something, again._ _

__Steven nodded, as he rested his head on Xabi’s shoulder, his hair clinging to his scalp by perspiration. Just another lesson to learn, to absorb._ _

__Training, Spanish lessons, training. Match games._ _

__Spanish lessons._ _

__Alex arranged that one. Not the perky, air conditioned, expensive classes of the language schools in Real Madrid, but in the narrow streets of the old part of the capital, the Plaza de la Villa - up creaky stairs, with narrow walls that pressed in on one into the lair of Don Andrés Santos de Pomposo. A retired journalist by trade, he taught English part time and wrote the odd editorial. “I have been Madridista since I was a child,” he said, “Puskas, Di Stefano...the greats.” A sigh at this, fingers splayed against his thin chest as if musing on a young lost love. “To play for Real Madrid is an honour, you know? To kiss the crest, _Hala Madrid_ -”_ _

__“Y nada más.”_ _

__“Yes!” Santos pushed a finger in the air, brightened by Steven’s attempt. “The most important phrase. Better than asking for beer.”_ _

__You really couldn’t help but to like Don Andrés, slim as a chance of winning the Christmas multi million dollar lottery they’d already started selling tickets for in Madrid, dressed in the way of the old gentlemen. Linen pants, a Real Madrid polo shirt, loafers, and the faint smell of cigar smoke. His office - walls filled with honours of his work, a bookcase from floor to ceiling filled with books jostling for space, and somewhat incongruously, a whiteboard on another wall, and on his desk, a sleek humming desktop. His face and hands freckled by the sun, but even his age couldn’t hide the fine features of his face, and he stood as straight as a footballer hearing his country's anthem before a game._ _

__“ I spoke to your lovely wife this morning, she said you could come in the evenings, three times a week?”_ _

__“That’s fine. But once our mid week games start, I don’t know if I can-”_ _

__“Again, fine. We have skype, we will manage. Shall we begin?”_ _

__They began, and an hour later, the lesson ended._ _

__“That was-” Steven began, burying his face in his hands, his elbows digging into his thighs. The last time he felt this mortified might have been the time his father caught him wearing a United shirt._ _

__“It takes seven years to learn a language, you just did an hour. You’ll get better.” Andrés got to his feet, walked to his desk, gathered a few print outs and handed them to Steven. Steven flipped through the mini dossier, seeing diagrams for pitch and positions on the pitch labelled in Spanish. As well as little diagrams of footballers going hither and yonder, their actions described in Spanish too. “Vocabulary for football players. Apart from say, Ronaldo, Alonso, and the two German signings, the rest of your team will speak Spanish or Portuguese, might as well you learn them now.”_ _

__It made sense, Steven murmured his thanks as he took them from him._ _

__“Also, you will need to start reading in the language as soon as possible,” Andrés said. “I know you’ll find this hard, because you’re English.”_ _

__“I- what?”_ _

__“The sport culture in England is-- different. In England, sports is separate from society in some way that it isn’t here. More class based than anything. In Spain, sports is is a regional, cultural, political pursuit. You don’t perform for yourself, but for your region, your culture. You play for Real Madrid, yes? You must be aware of its history, the symbolism of el clásico. For the English, you have five good teams, in Spain, we have two great ones. And not to mention your coach.”_ _

__“Mourinho? What about him?”_ _

__“He worked for Barcelona, and now he works for Real, two opposing viewpoints,” Andrés tsked, vertical frown line appearing over his brow._ _

__“Isn’t that what coaches do?” and the look Andrés gave him, that sort of self pitying one as if he were a bit thick. “Start learning how to read, Mr Gerrard,” he snapped only in the way a Spaniard could do, Steven was now coming to realise. There was no mistaking his displeasure. “I will see you at the next class.”__

 _ _***__

 _ _“It’s us against them,” Jose Mourinho paced, as the rest of the Real Madrid squad sat at their desks and looked on, the video finished, their dossiers in front of them. “We are the best, and people are going to be jealous of that, but we don’t care, we are made to win. We are different, so we must carry ourselves as such. We don’t exchange jerseys at the end of a match, for instance. I’m stopping that now,” he glared at Iker Casillas. “We don’t entertain peasants, we give no quarter, ask for none. Every match is a war, and we win, yes?”_ _

Iker didn’t back down. “What I chose to do with my jerseys at the end of the match is my business, _el mister_ ,” he replied, his voice clear in the quiet room, the honorific bordering on scorn. 

“Oh?” Mourinho raised his eyebrows, and Steven closed the dossier, trying to catch Xabi’s eye, but Xabi steadily looked ahead, and Steven tried to catch every word of Spanish being said. “You hear this?” Mourinho asked the room, the players and the staff quiet, and alert. “I give an order, and Casillas has something to say.” His voice pleasant, almost musical, the intent poisonous at the heart of it.

“Never mind that our _San Iker_ has not kept a clean sheet for the last two matches? I-” Mourinho sighed, the air around him like one of a disappointed father. “Your form has been lacking lately, I’m only trying to help you, by developing a winning mindset, and you want to argue with me the merits of giving your clothes away. Hmph!” 

“It’s the spirit of _senorio_ ,” Iker shot back, “for someone who’s supposed to be the manager of the club, you don’t seem to realise what the club means.” 

“It means nothing if you aren’t winning. I don’t have to tell you about the six goals you let in from Barca, no? Or oh, I could get Pedro to go and load up the video so we can run through that again. Go through them in detail for those of us who weren’t here, like Gerrard and Ozil, hmmm?” 

Iker stiffened as if he had been struck. 

“Oh, you’ll tell me that oh, you’ve won the World Cup, this past summer, as if it were your efforts, but actually, that was mostly Barcelona’s, do I need to call their names?” 

“ _Perdón, el mister_ Iker's muscle twitched along his jaw. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.” 

Mourinho nodded, accepting the apology with an exaggerated nod. “Now, can I speak? Yes? We have trophies to win, _senorio_ ,” raised eyebrows in Casillas’ direction, “or no.” 

“What was that about?” Steven asked as they bundled up their dossiers, leaving the room at the end of the session, and Xabi rolled his shoulders. “That was Jose Mourinho.” 

“Yeah,” Steven said, watching Iker storm off, and Sergio running after him, his hair flapping in the wind with every movement. “I just...wouldn’t you try and talk to him separately?” 

“And undermine the spirit of the dressing room?” Xabi asked, the question more rhetoric than genuine. “ Casillas is the captain, but Jose Mourinho is the manager, and even though Captains do have -” he stopped, and Steven tried for a word, “Seniority?” 

“Yes,” Xabi answered, for that was the right word. “Seniority, Mourinho is still the manager, no? You can’t have a good team if the Captain and the manager aren’t respecting each other.” 

“This isn’t Liverpool, Steven.” 

“I know, but-” 

“You wanted to come to a club that wins things, to work with a manager that wins things. This is what you wanted, yes?” 

when you put it like that... “Yes.” 

The training Steven could do in his sleep. Gym routine overseen by specialists determining blood flow, oxygen levels. Swimming recommended, and done. Whenever he could, he tried to swim a mile in Real’s Olympic sized swimming pool. 

Match games, they powered through defeating teams that Steven still couldn’t pronounce. Cheers by the Madridistas this time, as the crowds sang songs that he still couldn’t catch. But it was good, the streak of wins they enjoyed, and Steven learnt enough Spanish to go, “ _Lo siento, pero no puedo,_ ” when he got asked for his shirt. Even after Xabi told him to ignore them, for what peasants to the King that was Real, Steven still tried to be polite. Real Madrid gathered momentum, knocking everyone out, racking up points on La Liga’s sheet. Iker Casillas didn’t honour that edict, however, he still gave his jerseys away, to all and sundry. Got an extended feature on a local channel for doing so. The woman who profiled him on the show was a pretty brunette. The piece was funny and cute and biting, the backlash was immense. 

_Iker and Cristiano Ronaldo are the only two Real Madrid players who give their shirts away? Are they the only ones who can afford to? Surely Real isn’t poor?_

Jose Mourinho came into the dressing room before their next match, “So, someone got a profile on the TV today, about not exchanging shirts. It even got picked up by Sky back in England, even ESPN in the US. If it means so much to strip naked, that you must give your shirts away, do.” 

He walked towards the door, and slapped at his forehead as if he’d forgotten something, and spun around. “Oh, Lopez, you’re starting in goal in the next match.” 

“What?” Iker shot up from the bench he was sitting on, and shouted, “I’m fit!” 

Mourinho only shrugged his shoulders, “You need a break, I’m giving you one.” 

Despite the tense dressing room situation, they were in good form, and Steven relished this, this is why he left Liverpool. To be in a team that won games, that gave their fans something to cheer about, with a manager that made it happen. He felt the air changing around him. Knew that something huge loomed on the horizon. Would swear on his daughter’s tow heads that something big was coming, he as sure as he saw the next fixture on the sheet. _Barcelona, FC_. 

Steven didn’t know enough Spanish to follow the news, but unlike Michael Owen, who’d run off to the airport to buy English newspapers, Steven had the advantage of the internet in his home. He also had the advantage of Don Andrés. 

“Have you ever watched an el clásico before, Steven?” Don Andrés asked him in Spanish, and Steven’s blank features made him shake his head, as he asked again, slower this time. 

“Oh yeah, of course.” 

“You only see the _blaugrana_ against _los blancos_ and think the spectacle ends here. Messi vs Ronaldo, Alonso versus Hernandez. It’s more than that, it’s footballing philosophy. The doubts that Barcelona has, always the tinkering, the _tiki taka_ the passes. Real- we do it, we go for it. We play with _grandeur_ , with power. Whether we win, or lose, we do so with grandeur. You understand?” 

Steven wanted to say that he did, but he didn’t, not really. “I don’t want to lose,” he said, at last in English, because the conjugations and indirect object pronouns were doing his head in. “I’ve had enough of that. My former club, the joke’s that the English National Team. It’s easy to be romantic about losing when you’ve won everything, being a Real Madridista and your World Cup. There’s nothing grand in losing, mate.” 

Don Andrés shook his head, inhaled a breath through his nose, his mouth thinned as he put his hand up in the universal gesture for stop. After a tense silence, he went to the whiteboard, and they worked on the preterite tense instead. 

What Steven did know, was of Barcelona - who didn’t? _Blaugrana_ , Camp Nou. He also knew about Pep Guardiola, boy prodigy from La Masia to first team. Midfielder who guided the team to successes, and now, Barcelona’s head coach. It also seemed that Guardiola and Mourinho had a history. Which, to be fair, once you got high enough in football, your field got smaller. Dismissed the upcoming match as nerves. Being in one of the biggest clubs in the world to play against the other biggest football club in the world? It didn’t get better than that. 

***

“Sons of bitches!” Mourinho kicked the chart stand across the room and sent it flying. Steven flinched at the crack it made as it shattered against the wall. “ _Hijos de puntas_. I ask you one thing- goals in the back of the net! Can’t you do such a simple thing?” He roared, fists shaking in the air, the locker room thick and jittery with nerves at half time. They were down to Barcelona by two, both by the boot of Lionel Messi.

“I bring you here to Camp Nou,” Mourinho snarled, “and you embarrass me! In front of them- the _cules_ , the _assholes_.You-” he pointed to Ronaldo, “you’re here to score. That’s all you’re bred to do. Can’t you do what your parents bred you for?” 

Cristiano didn’t say a word, just rolled his eyes and folded his arms. “And you!” Jose Mourinho swung his hand around, pointed to Iker Casillas, looking as bright as an overgrown canary in that highlighter yellow kit Adidas kitted out for the goalie. “Some Captain you are,” he laughed mockingly. “You stand on your six yard line and do nothing, and say nothing. Have no direction for your team mates. You are _lacking_ , lacking. Because of you-” Mourinho drew himself up to his full height, and sauntered over to Steven, now seated on a bench, clad in his undervest, not wanting to tug on his shirt until they had to go out. He felt the weight of Mourinho’s hands on his shoulders, as if it were a coronation of shorts. “I had to go to England, and bring back a new Captain.” 

_What?_ Steven understood enough Spanish for that. He raised his head, wanting to say something in Spanish, but the language deserted him. Looked to Xabi for help, any sort of help, but his features were neutral to the point of blank. Alvaro didn't meet his eyes either. 

“Mourinho,” Steven started, but he didn’t hear. 

“You,” Mourinho lifted a hand of Steven’s shoulders and shook his pointer finger at Iker. “Consider this your notice, eh? If you don’t shape up, you can be replaced. The Bernabéu isn’t your home, nothing is permanent. No player is beyond replacing. Now, go out there, and try and salvage your manhoods,” Mourinho scoffed. “Or else I replace the entire team with the Madrid B squad.”  
They trudged out towards the passage, Steven’s ears ringing. He didn’t get everything Mourinho said, but the tone had been enough. He wanted blood, was fed up, and this Barcelona rivalry seemed personal. 

In the end, they lost to Barcelona 5-0. 

“Hey, wait up,” Steven ran after Iker, in the parking lot. He’d waited until everyone had left, and Steven, knowing that he’d have done the same thing, waited. After Iker spoke to everyone after the match, eyes dry, back straight, but Steven saw the tremor in his hands, the rigid set of his shoulders. Iker waited until everyone cleared up and cleared out. Steven waited, because well... it beat going home. 

Steven grabbed at his arm, only for Iker to wrench it from his grasp. 

“Are you going to blame that on me too, Gerrard?” Iker spat, colour high on his cheeks. 

_“I- no!” Steven shook his head, the thought not even crossing his mind, as much as wanting to offer some sort of solace. He’d seen Iker’s face as the match went on, the rage and despair as the ball kept landing into the back of the net. Knew what it felt like being the captain of a team that listed and tilted as the match went on. Intimately aware of the despair that followed you home, that curled around you like a straitjacket and never let you go, leaving you chilled even in the warmth of a shared bed. “We were rubbish out there tonight, that’s... that’s the fault of midfield and defence mostly, not you.”_

“The first time, I come back into the posts -” he started, his voice cracking. “That happens. Then him threatening to strip my captaincy-” 

“Mourinho is just playing mind games with you,” Steven said desperately. “I can’t get it, it’s supposed to be by seniority, right? So it would go to Sergio, right? He can’t strip it from you- can he?” 

“If I can’t be in the goal posts, if I can’t be on the field, how am I supposed to be captain?” Iker spat the words out, staccato style. “ _Puta madre_ , you’re so-” Iker stopped, rubbing at his face with his hands. “You know _nothing_! Nothing! Nothing of our club, our team spirit. What does that _pendejo_ see in you?” 

Now, wait a bloody minute. “I’m not the sodding problem here, Iker.” 

“You know,” Iker said through clenched teeth. “Neither am I.” 

**Chapter 3**

**-August 2011**

“So, how’s Real Madrid treating you?” Carra said, as they sat down for pizza at Totò E Peppino, a popular restaurant that provided pizzas for the Real Madrid players after the games. “I see you have a bit of a tan there,” Carra pointed out, and Steven looked at his forearm. Yeah, he was brown, not berry brown, but had enough colour to offset his default English pallor. 

“It’s,” Steven rolled his shoulders and sighed. “It is, you know? We’ve yet to win a trophy, and the natives are getting restless.”  
Carra raised his eyebrows, and scoffed, “It’s a good thing they’re not Liverpool fans, eh? All right for some.” 

“They’re wealthy enough to not be like Liverpool,” Steven said, resentment shadowing his voice, still angry at his old club’s down turn of fortunes. “They sold me, and I came yeah, because I wanted to, but I was hoping that Liverpool might have invested the money they got from my transfer fees in talent or something.” 

“Ach, Stevie,” Carra raised his bottle of Jose Cuervo, and took a sip. “That’s Liverpool’s problem, not yours. It’s been almost a year now, have you bedded in well, you think?” 

“I’m all right-” and they broke off the conversation, as their waitress served them their pizza, big enough for two, with salads and the ubiquitous balsamic vinegar and olive oil in bottles. “ _Muchos gracias_ ,” Steven said, his accent a lot better now than he started off life in Spain as. “ _¿Que nos puede traer dos cervezas, por favor?_ ” Steven knew his attempt was bad, but the waitress smiled her understanding. 

“ _Ooooh_ get you.” 

“Don’t even start,” Steven waved off Carra’s teasing. “I got tired of tugging at Xabi’s and Alvaro’s shirt tales asking for help, so I’m doing it meself. The language won’t be the same when I’m done with it, though. Alex got me a teacher.” 

“Oh,” Carra asked with great care, “how is Alex then?” 

“She’s Alex,” Steven said, “she just gets stuck in, you know? Got a gym membership, the girls enrolled in a school, they’re speaking Spanish better than I am. She hangs with Nagore- and goes to her own language classes.” 

A poke at the subject with the tip of a finger. “And you both are okay?” 

Steven shrugged. “We don’t talk about it.” 

“Okay,” Carra shrugged, letting the subject go. “Speaking of which, how _is_ our bonny boy, Xabi Alonso?” 

“He’s doing all right for himself,” Steven answered between bites of pizza, “it seems that our Xabi is lining up to be a bit of a model and clotheshorse in his spare time. He’d have met up with us, although pizza isn’t his thing, he says, but he’s busy, photo shoot, I think.” 

“Get ‘im,” Carra reached for his pizza too, slurping at the stringy bits of mozzarella cheese, with cured streaks of iberian ham and rocket as topping. “And Jose Mourinho. How is it working with him, then?” Steven chewed his pizza thoughtfully. “Everyday,” he said at last, when he swallowed. “Is an adventure.” 

**BUST UP AT REAL MADRID TRAINING GROUND!!!**

_Sources say Iker Casillas and Steven Gerrard had to be pulled apart by team mates today in training. No one knows why, but the latest rumour going around is that Jose Mourinho is thinking of taking away goalkeeping duties and the armband from Iker Casillas. Oh no, not our San Iker, patron of the Bernabéu? Also, remember that English player who slapped a super injunction in court? That’s Real Madrid’s own Steven Gerrard. Some enterprising reporter leaked the details of Steven Gerrard’s super injunction to Marca today. The details can’t be released in England due to libel, but it can be released here._

“You _fucker_!” Steven lunged at Iker, both of them going down on the grass, all arms and legs flailing. Steven in fine temper, as the news broke. His blood bubbled with it, him wanting to do nothing but punch Iker in his smug, stupid fa- 

Before he could finish that thought or action, he found himself being held back by his arms and shoulders. 

“Let me go!” Steven shouted, as he squirmed and pulled at the arms holding him. “Let me go. Casillas, you _fucker_ , if you have a problem with me, say it! You had no right-!” 

“What is going on here?” That was Cristiano’s voice at his ear. His fingers digging like steel bands around Steven's arm 

“Stevie,” and that was Xabi. “Calm down, we’re in training. We’re supposed to attack the other players, not each other.” 

“Let me go.” 

“Only if you don’t fight,” Xabi said, watching as Sergio helped Iker to his feet, wiping at his nose. 

“Fine.” 

“Stevie-” 

__“I said _fine_ ,” Steven shook his head, temper clearing. “It’s out anyway.” __

“What’s out?” Sergio asked, arm around Iker's waist, Iker's arm around his shoulders. 

“Ask him, and his _girlfriend_ ,” Steven sneered, feeling sick at it all. 

“It’s _alleged_ that his wife cheated on him with someone from Derby Rams, our version of a _segunda league_ player, so he returns the favour, with her sister. I guess they call that- family counselling.” 

With the revelation, silence dropped on the field like a bomb, then murmurs, as the English speakers tried to translate it for the non English ones. Pepe and Marcelo covered their mouths, whether through shock or amusement, Steven didn’t want to know. Xabi touched Steven’s shoulder, his voice incredulous. “I- is this true?” 

“It doesn’t matter.” 

“But-” 

“No,” Steven tried to speak around the lump in his throat. “It doesn’t matter.”

***

“Steven,” Mourinho greeted him at the pool the afternoon after. Steven had been on his twentieth lap, going for that mile, and hearing his name, started swimming towards the edge of the pool where Jose stood, peering up at his manager.

“Jose.” 

“Please, stay as you are,” Jose waved, as he dropped to his haunches, looking more like a harried executive in his light suit and white shirt, than a manager. “I heard about your excitement today?” “Yeah, it was just a misunderstanding,” Steven said, as he stayed where he was, treading water. “Been to the physio, got scans, and everything checks out. I won’t be face down on the field, if that’s what you’re worried about.”  
“No, no,” Jose said, as Steven found himself at the end of a look that he didn’t like, and he felt his entire body tensing, to the point where he started to sink like a stone. Immediately, he shook it off, retreading water. “I must say, I’ve been impressed with your leadership skills on the field and off. Even though we lost to Barcelona, you were still there, ordering the troops, and having a presence on the field...” 

_No, no, no,_ Steven thought, as Mourinho went on. Was he really going to go through with this? Despite the tensions in the locker room? Why? “You are my captain,” a splay of fingers across his chest, as if to underscore the point. “And I want to know that I’m watching you, that I appreciate that. Oh!” he laughed, as he checked his watch. “Look at the time. I’ve promised the wife we’d go out for a meal tonight. I’d invite you, but-”  
“No,” Steven hastily waved it off. “It’s fine.”  
“Right, well. See you in training tomorrow, no? We have a Copa Del Rey to win.”  
“Yeah,” Steven said, hardly believing the conversation they just had. 

***

“You need to start reading Spanish papers,” Xabi said, as they sat down to eat at another one of Xabi’s finds in Madrid, _El Paraguas_ , a restaurant specialising in Asturian cuisine that both Xabi himself and Alavaro rated highly. Steven could see why it appealed to Xabi’s aesthetic: high ceilings, linen tablecloths, silver cutlery and the whole lot, making it more like an elegant home instead of a place of business, and today being a weekday before the dinner rush, it had the air of privacy and lovely things that he craved. 

“Really? Didn’t you say that they were scum and filled with gossip? Besides, I’ve had enough of seeing my face on the cover of every magazine out there, thanks.” 

“Not everything is of you, you know?” 

“About you,” Steven corrected. 

“About you, still, it’s worth keeping up with scum and gossip.” Xabi handed him a copy of _Deportivo_ across the table. 

“But,” Steven cracked, “I can’t even read English. I'm Scouse, remember?” 

Xabi didn’t laugh, and rolling his eyes, Steven took the magazine from Xabi. Taking his time, read the headline on the cover. Reread it, relying heavily on context, and he raised his eyes at the end of it, and said, “Is this true?” 

“You have impressed Mourinho,” Xabi shrugged his shoulders. “Who knows?” 

“Xabi,” Steven began, as he leaned across their shared table. “I don’t know what games Mourinho is playing here, but I don’t want any part of them. What- I know my Spanish is dire, but what the hell is going on?” 

“Mourinho doesn’t think that Casillas is up to form,” Xabi explained, as he picked up his menu. “He doesn’t command the box like he used to, and there’s the thought that as a goalkeeper, you’re cut off from the action, so a midfielder might be the better choice.” 

__“So _someone_ who may or may not be him decides to spread a rumour that I’m in line to be Captain? Even though the option has been thoroughly debunked online, and by everyone. In addition to my injunction- thanks for that, Iker- and discussed that I can’t be captain due to seniority? Is he trying upend the entire dressing room? ” Steven’s voice raised to an almost shout at the question, and catching himself, he brought it down again, to a hushed whisper. __

“Does Mourinho know what he’s playing at? Iker Casillas is the golden boy of Real Madrid. A local lad done good. Has all the goodwill in the world, why would you try to break him, push him out? Xabi, this makes no sense. Tell me you think this makes no sense.” 

“I can see how it would, it gives Casillas food for thought, no? Makes him realise that his place isn’t sure, get’s everyone else on their toes. I can see why the manager would do it.” 

“You _fucking_ hypocrite,” Steven retorted coldly, unable to believe what he was hearing. “When Benitez did that to you, you threw a strop, remember?” 

“He threatened to sell me,” Xabi answered, his eyes narrowing. “Since he decided to go there, I thought I might as well just see what my options were. Casillas has two options: he can either work in line with the manager’s plans, or see what’s out there. I did. It worked out for me, it might for him.” 

“Oh, _Xabi_. Not everyone is you, weighing up and looking for an out. Iker Casillas is Real Madrid. He belongs to Real Madrid. He’d never leave.” 

“Funny, people said the same thing about you.” 

Ouch. Xabi always knew where to find the soft spots. “That’s different,” Steven finally said, after the pain of Xabi’s comment ebbed. “I did it to save the club.” 

“Every situation is different,” Xabi looked up from his menu. “I can recommend the _fabada austuriana_ ; it’s a stew mostly made from white beans, pork, chorizo and saffron.” 

“No,” Steven pushed himself away from the table getting to his feet. “I think I’m going to home and eat fish and chips.” Or something less pretentious he wanted to say, but that would have been mean for no reason. “Some other time, yeah?”  
“Stevie,” Xabi held out his hand, palm up as if to placate. “Just sit, I know that you’re accustomed to Anfield and the dressing room culture there, but Real Madrid was always going to be different, yes? That’s one of the reasons why you came here. To win things, and a part of winning things is having a winner’s attitude. Real Madrid has that, and so does Mourinho. Please, sit down, and share this stew with me, it’s too much food to have by myself.” 

Just like that, when the light hit him just so, Xabi half smiling, they might have been back six years in the Liverpool dug out again. Less this closed, coolly elegant man of mystery thing he had going on nowadays with his magazine covers and brands, and more the Xabi he knew; a bit more open, with a sense of humour, and that’s what made him nod and say yes after a few seconds. Yeah, Xabi might be right, Real Madrid was a different culture, and they were winners, he’d just have to get with the programme, didn’t he? Steven just fell out of that mindset with Liverpool, that’s all. 

He sat down, and Xabi asked the question he knew he’d ask. “The details with the - that- is it true?” 

“No,” and that was easy to deny. “Alex doesn’t even have a sister.” 

“And the um- _allegeded_ affair-” 

Again, easy enough to dismiss. “I believe her. So again, no. But you want to know why I did it. Our daughters are six and three, they go to school. I can ride out the rumours and don’t care, but not them. They don’t deserve to, Xabs, and I’d do it again. And also," he could admit this to Xabi, because he'd understand the difference between selfish and career gain. "It gave me an excuse to leave, to go somewhere where I could win and play with the best of them." 

**Chapter 4**

The season continued, and Steven tried to come to terms with the dressing room culture. On top of that, the games week in and out, training, no Spanish lessons (he dropped those for now), came _el clasico_ and Pep Guardiola. 

Less football matches and more ugly, brutish wars. Whistles blowing, the stop and start at turns making the game choppy and hard to get into. Tika taka football, the ball zooming across the grass, following along Messi’s foot like a faithful dog bounding along its master. He got one in the back of the net. The scrum of bodies under the screech of the crowd, the dazzle of lights as the Madridistas bayed for blood. Feet leaden, legs aching from the lactic acid build up, he ran, Mourinho’s chants from the dressing room in his ears. 

You might want to embarrass yourselves, but you will not embarrass me! Mourinho threw the words down like an edict from the mountain top. _Not in front of him_

Yellow cards fell like rain, the storm of red cards present. Steven played on, challenged Messi for the ball, a clean sweep, getting from underfoot, only for Messi to bob to his feet again, like one of those pop up puppets. Xabi body slammed into Messi, and in slow motion, Steven’s breath the only soundtrack to his surroundings, hardly believing it when Messi crumbled to the ground, and Xabi _stepped over Messi’s prone figure_ as if he were a lump of coal in the road. 

The screams of _cómo no te voy a querer_ \- fuelled by the bloodlust of the fans exploded in his ear, bringing him back to the present, where time lurched forward, then righted itself.  
“What the fuck-?” Steven slid on the grass to Messi’s aid, dropping to his knees, to rest his hand on his shoulder, the other in his hair. 

“Leave him,” Xabi shouted. “We have a game to play.” 

"You nutter! The referee’s stopped the game anyway!”  
“It’s only Messi.” 

“It’s still a player that’s hurt,” Steven waved Xabi away, furious at the severity of the challenge. “For fuck’s sake you wanker, I challenged, he didn’t have the ball!” he cried, leaning over to stroke Messi’s shoulder, turning his back to Xabi to protect Messi from being stomped on by the other Real Madrid players. “He didn’t have the ball.” 

Xabi screaming at the sidelines with Pep Guardiola another time, their Spanish fluent and harsh. Too quick for Steven to follow, but he got the gist of Pep's fury; Real Madrid were less like players with a ball, and more like thugs on a field when Barcelona came to the Bernabéu, or they arrived at Camp Nou. "Leave it, Xabi, just-" Steven tried to come between Xabi and Pep Guardiola. Guardiola's face contorted in anger as he spat at Steven, "Keep him on a leash. Keep your players on a leash! It is supposed to be a game, and they're supposed to be gentlemen, not brutes!" At times, it felt less like playing a football match and more like putting out fires. 

They won the Copa del Rey that April. Steven’s first exposure to the Cibeles, where he was on the open air bus with the rest of them. The oversized statues decorated with white trim, the night electric and turned to almost day by the fireworks spiraling in the sky. Cars swarmed in and around the plaza, horns and flags waving. Iker Casillas held the cup aloft, as impressive in real life as it was on TV. The Madridistas below them waved hands and flags and banners in the air and screamed, the atmosphere more carnival than processional, their shouts and cries made the air tremble and shake. Everyone in their _los blancos_ kits, because they won the Copa del Rey after an eighteen year drought. Xabi already deep in his cups, sipping on the second beer of the night. Ramos handed Xabi the cup, and he held it above his head with the strange air of a temple priest, aloof, as he looked down at the crowds below him with a faint amusement. Seeing Steven, he smiled, and passed the cup to him. Steven hefted it above his head, giving it a little shake as confetti swirled around him as he passed it on to Sergio Ramos. It wasn’t the same, it wasn’t the same at all. 

**Chapter 5**

 

_\- May, 29th 2012_

**I Am No Longer A Madridista**

_-Don Andres Santos de Pomposo_  
To paraphrase my colleague Javier Marias, you are allowed to change professions, wives, and cities, but not your football team. 

With Jose Mourinho, the now _el mister_ of Real Madrid, I cannot change my football team, for I am honour bound not to. However, what I can do is not care if Real Madrid loses. If it means the accumulated losses are the ones that will push Mourinho closer to the door, so be it. Real Madrid, whether we won or lost, we did it in the spirit of _senorio_. We won well, if we won, we were proud, not patronizing. When we lost, we did it knowing that we’d go off, retool and come back another day.

_Mourinho started off life as a translator, el traductor, most notably at Barcelona FC. When it came for Barcelona to chose a mister, they had the option between Pep Guardiola, someone who grew up in the system, and Jose Mourinho, someone who translated the system between his English coach and the Catalans. Mourinho has been translating his type of success ever since. The Italians say the translator is traitor, which means that the window between what we think we’re saying, versus what we’re saying, done via the conduit may be two different things. This is Mourinho- if pressed, he would say, he’s winning, he’s giving us the wins that we want._

_Which then, begs the unsettling question; are these the wins that we want? El clásico matches used to be waited on with great excitement, the two best teams in La Liga, with their distinct, Shakespearean archetypes. The doubting ruminations of Barcelona’s Hamlet, a contrast the go get it personality of Real Madrid’s Macbeth. Our ethic is hard work, humility, hard work and honesty. To watch el clásico now is to be embarrassed by the ugliness and cynicism that pervades Real Madrid under Jose Mourinho’s watch. Is this what it is to be a Madridista? Como no te voy a querer, a song that's less an anthem for us, and no an unsettling premise_

_The only consolation I take away is this: the shirt is is greater than the coach, the legacy larger than Jose Mourinho’s ego. It will still bleed white when he leaves.  
_

El clásico wars waged on. Due to the quirk of the draw, they met four times in the first half of the season. 

Every press conference Jose Mourinho turned up at had the drama and verve of a bullfight, with the promise of drawn blood by the end of it. 

He swept to the podium, showmanship in his every step, no matter what outfit, be it in adidas stripes or the smooth, clean lines of Armani, but on him, every piece of clothing might have been the _traje de luces_. Mourinho's chin tilted to the heavens with the resoluteness of a Christian being thrown to the lions in front of the Romans. What with the press, twelve deep, their cameras and recorders and roar of questions in Jose Mourinho’s direction like paws to fresh meat, it wasn’t a bad comparison. 

“Bah, you ask me questions! Questions that are stupid, that have no basis on what I am doing!” He slammed his fist on the table. “You listen to what those _culos_ over in Catalan say about me? Knowing that they aren’t true. You listen to that bastard, Guardiola. Pah, the things I have to deal with.”  
“But about Iker Casillas, and Sergio Ramos going to Florentino Perez with _that_ ultimatum - that it's either them or you. Can you weigh in on that?” 

“You ask them, okay?” Mourinho snapped, with the dramatics of a soap opera actress on those televnovellas Alex started watching to ‘help with my Spanish listening’. “Because, I don’t know. Eh? I bring success to the club, and this is the thanks I get. I will never do another one of these press conferences! Bastards, the whole lot of you!” 

The psychological warfare raged outside as in, as Jose Mourinho blasted them all, “I am surrounded by sons of a bitches!” he snarled with the pathos and frustration of an imperilled king surrounded by an unfavourable court. “All I ask is that you do your best, you follow my plans, and success will happen. Like Xabi here and Alvaro. They come to work, they do as I ask, and go home to their wives and children. Why not all of you? Don't you want to win?” 

They kept on the road winning though: the Supercopa. Defeating Barcelona along the way, their style suffocating the danger of tika taka. 

Iker only grew more livid as the season tumbled on, even turning on Sergio Ramos as he got _another_ yellow card at the behest of Mourinho. 

“You too?” Iker turned on Sergio, his voice carrying in the hallway, as Steven tried to ignore the conversation and desperation threading through it. “You’re committing fouls to get books so that we have clean sheets in the knockout rounds, you’re going from thirty percent to forty five percent under _him_! It’s - we’re not like that, Sergio,” Iker grabbed at his arm, his voice hoarse with emotion. “We’re not like that, I can’t- I can’t. I can’t do this alone.” 

“Iker-” 

“If you’re my friend, you won’t do it. If you're a Madridista, you know it's wrong. I know I’m in danger of not being the number 1 choice of goal keeper anymore, but I don’t care. Don’t give me the messages Mourinho sends, I won’t listen.” 

“Okay,” Sergio said after a long silence. “Okay.” 

The news leaks from camp geysered forth, stamped across _Marca_ , _Deportiva_ , on the TV gossip shows. Blogs, and _El Mundo_. One small mercy was that his story wasn’t of interest to anyone anymore. 

This is what he wanted, Stevie told himself as he got into the dressing room, and said hi, considering it business when people refused to return his greeting. Relations ranging from neutral with Cristiano Ronaldo to outright coldness from Sergio Ramos and Iker Casillas - who sent him messages if he had to by third party, either Khedira or di Maria. This wasn’t Anfield, where everyone pulled together, the heartache and joys of football shared by all, Shankly style, this was Real Madrid, where you turned in for your shift, dragged on the white of the home kit, the emerald of the second kit, the ultramarine of the third kit. Home games, away games, Champions League, Super Cup, Copa del Rey.  
He could do it, Steven told himself. Put it away, and keep on winning. Do like how Xabi did be a good foot soldier for Mourinho- where nothing mattered but glory and silverware. 

“It’s Mourinho, and his tactics seem to work,” Xabi said. “It’s silverware, it’s competitions.”  
“Yeah but- I mean, we thought Benitez was bad, but this - Xabi," Steven looked up from his towel, as they changed in the locker rooms after one of those matches against Barcelona, when you hobbled off the field, your shoes filled with blood, your body aching from the blotch of bruises that came up the next day. Pain and discomfort finally had the courage to express his discomfort at everything. "This is crazy.” Xabi halfway through changing, his top off and bare chested, towel held around his hips, everyone else milling around in the distance either shouting curses or hissing with pain, because the match had been a rough one. 

“No,” Xabi raised his eyebrows, and gave that half neutral, half considering look Steven knew well. “This is winning.” 

__Bring it for the Madridistas, whose appetites were unending. They cheered for the glory, wanted more, and more. The jittery feeling in Steven’s stomach knowing that if he lost, if they lost, there’d be no fan to prop them up, to sing songs of comfort. They wanted more! More! _¿Algún más? ¡Si, mucho más!__ _

He could do it, Steven told himself, as he ran, and kicked, and swam. Massages to keep the muscles supple, ice baths to allay swelling. Played to the various formations, him and Xabi still doing that old magic in midfield. Restarted Spanish lessons to do the interviews he was expected to do, although Don Andrés didn't answer to Andrés any more. Kit presentations, new Adidas predators, tours. _I bleed white, I kiss the shirt. Hala Madrid y Nada Más_ and when he kissed the crest, he felt like Judas. If he closed his eyes, he swore he felt the shape of the lyrebird against his heart like a brand, raised and tender like scarred skin. He could do it, turn his eye against everything else but winning. 

Steven almost believed it all until Jose Mourinho did something so audacious, so out of the world, that brought all his illusions crashing down. 

**Chapter 6**

**Breaking News: Iker Casillas Stripped Of Number 1 position as goalkeeper**

_Latest news: reports have come in that Jose Mourinho has stripped Iker Casillas of the Number 1 goal keeper position, citing Casillas’ loss of drive and presence on the field. “He’s unable to maintain his own box, due to lack of form, and Mourinho is determined to change things up,” sources have said. Sergio Ramos remains vice captain, but with Casillas not being number 1 goalkeeper, his captaincy is technically in doubt._

The news blared over the radio of his Audi. Not even stopping, Steven put his foot to the pedal and drove on; knowing that if the news were true, there’s one place where Iker Casillas would be, because if it had been him, that’s where he’d be, too. The Bernabéu wasn’t open to tours today, but Steven had his player’s pass, and with staff waving and smiling at him, he was allowed through. He made his way through the walkout, on to the expanse of field, half jogging, half running along the way, knowing but hoping that he’d be here. The size of the pitch always struck Steve. Huge as the sky above it, immaculate in form, and there would always be a thrill that zinged in his stomach as he stepped out on the pitch. The Vatican of pitches, Steven had always thought, as his heart always thrilled as he stepped on to it. 

Iker Casillas sat by one of the goal posts, suited up in his training gear, his hand gently rubbing it, as if saying goodbye to an old friend. He wiped his eyes with the back of his other hand, looking like the nine year old he started off life in the Real Madrid _cantera_.  
“Iker,” Steven called out, as he waved his hands. “I- I come in peace.” His Spanish now decent enough to hold a conversation, or catch a joke. 

“Oh,” Iker said, moving from slumped shoulders to one of military bearing, as if facing a firing squad. “It’s you.” 

“Yeah,” Steven waved his hands, as he drew closer. “It’s me. Listen, I heard the news this morning- I’m not going to hit you. I promise.” 

Iker waved his hands, “As if this is my home anymore,” his voice trembled close to a sob, as he dropped his hands on his thighs. Steve sat down beside Iker, facing the stadium with its rows of empty seats. Steep, going from seats by the field and curving away into the sky. Still awe inspiring, like the best things in the world should be. 

“I’m -” 

“Sorry? Is that what you’re going to say? Even knowing that Mourinho chased after you for this to happen?” 

“I didn’t know,” Steve said at last. “I mean, me, I left Liverpool as a twofer, really. To save the club and I wanted to win things again. I knew Xabi from Liverpool, and he kept saying how great it was to play here. To win here.” 

“It is. You know, I’ve been here since I was nine years old? Came through the _cantera_ , got called up for the first team, and I’ve been here ever since. This is my home, my church, my being- and for Mourinho to try and strip it from me, well. It’s awful, but everything comes to an end. I guess, I’ll have to find a new home.” 

“It’s hard,” Steven said, “I’ve been here for two years, and it still doesn’t feel like home to me. I do miss Anfield though- that even when you lose, your supporters will sing for you. I didn’t come here to be captain, mate. I came here to see what winning felt like again.” Steven looked up at the sky, “It feels well...” 

“Like winning.” 

“Yeah, but then you ask yourself, suppose the team falls, and slips and go through a form of not winning? Would the Madridistas still show up and sing? With Liverpool, they do. They turn up to the stadiums as a sign of faith, of something for you to fight for. With Madrid- I don’t know. _Hala Madrid y Nada Más_ \- with this lot, they always want something more, and it’s less you wanting to give it to them and more fearing what will happen if you can’t.” 

“A lot of players that come to this club are second club players, or third- like Arbeloa, and Alonso, they come because they are called, the best of the best. The players - the best ones will play their best, always, because class is class. But you know, you wonder if their blood bleeds white, if they really care like I do. Like... I guess, how you do, for Liverpool. You left the club- and yet, you aren’t here. I remember that night when we won the Copa Del Rey? And how you held the cup quickly before passing it on to Sergio? That’s when I knew.” 

“Knew?” 

__“You weren’t really a blanco,” Iker said. “That you turned out and performed, and did your best for us, as you do, because to wear the shirt is an honour. But you have never been one of us, your blood doesn't bleed white for Madrid. But- you did try. When you blocked Alonso from stepping on Messi. When you blocked Pepe from charging at Xavi - and your fury with Mourinho over the yellow cards he made Xabi and Alonso get. We agree on this.”__

“Well, I might put that on me tombstone,” Steven said at last, knowing what he had to do, as he turned to Iker and held out his hand for a handshake. “It’s been nice knowing you.” 

Iker looked down, his lashes long and girlish against his cheeks, as he looked up at Steven’s face, and after a while, what he found must have satisfied him, because he placed his hand in Steven’s. “It’s not Spanish- but it’s honour. I can’t do that, because we Madridistas win at all costs- but I must say, with this business of Mourinho and you--- I can’t say I’d go your way, but Mourinho’s ways are a step too far in the other direction.”  
Steven got to his feet, and held out a hand, as he hauled Iker to his feet too. “I hope to see Real at Champions League in the next two years,” Steven said. “And when we meet- we’ll beat you, but we’ll go out for a drink after, if that’s all right?” 

“Yes,” Iker said, with the regal bearing of a Prince in exile who just got told he could come back to his kingdom. “I’d like that.” 

“Okay, well. ” Steven made to go before Iker’s voice stopped him. 

“I’m sorry,” he said, “about the leak. About everything.” 

“It doesn’t matter,” Steven said at last, because in the scheme of things, it didn’t. It really didn't. 

**Chapter 7**

“I’m sorry,” Steven said to Alex, as they sat on the steps of their patio, looking out at their back garden. “I’m sorry for everything. For keeping it under wraps, instead of fighting through it. Alex-” 

“You wanted to win,” Alex’s knees tucked against her body as she applied glossy sky blue nail polish to her toes; the piercing, sweet chemical smell of nail varnish sharpening the air. “You wanted Real Madrid. Nothing was going to stop you.” 

“I wanted to protect you as well.” 

“By making me run away. Don't lie." 

“You could have stayed in England,” Steven said at last. “I’d have supported you.” 

Alex rubbed at her eyes. “Like you could have left without me. I wanted you to win, because that’s what you wanted. The girls love you, and would have missed you terribly. If coming to Spain was the way forward, so be it, and it was. ” 

“What do you want to do?” 

Alex looked up at him then, hair falling across her shoulders in disordered waves, her eyes glassy with emotion. “I want us to go back home.” 

**The Prodigal Son Returning To Liverpool?**

_Sources say Steven Gerrard is making a shock move to Liverpool during this upcoming transfer window. After spending two years as un blanco Gerrard has decided that he is tired of walking alone. Under the new manager Brendan Rodgers, Liverpool’s football has been heralded as exciting and attacking, thrilling the Kopites for the first time since 2009. It helps that the new owners are investing in the club, getting talented, young players. According to sources, however, the biggest reason seems to be Brendan Rodgers, and the happy spirit of the locker room that's attracted Gerrard back to his home side. After the politics of the Real Madrid dressing room, he's said to be desperate for a change._

“You’re leaving?” 

“Jesus, Xabi,” Steven opened the door a crack, as he slipped his phone in the pocket of his pyjama trousers. Xabi on the other side of the door, in slacks and a button down, if he were on his way to a pool outing. Didn’t he rock the uniform of pjs and robes walking the dog like everyone else? 

“It’s gods ayem in the morning. When you called and said you needed to talk- you really meant _now_?” 

“The Buen Retiro Park is near here,” Xabi said, his dog tugging at its leash, and Steven knew the location of the park, living in the Barrio de Salamanca, he just never found the time to visit. Well, now was the time, obviously, he thought, as he shrugged into his training jacket to ward off the early morning chill. They walked from Steven’s house, Xabi not saying a word until they stepped through the gates. Dropping to his knees, Xabi murmured to his dog, and took off the leash its collar, letting it run off in the distance with little yips. 

Steven had exaggerated, it wasn’t gods ayem in the morning, more like six am in the morning. Early enough for dawn, the skies rosy and flushed with the newness of it. The park as big and majestic as these municipal spaces in Europe usually were, with fountains and statues and gates lavishly dotted here and there, making striking silhouettes at this hour. It was pleasant, too bad that he wouldn’t have the time to explore it before - 

“You’re leaving,” and Xabi got into it, as he turned on Steven, the retractable leash doing a small _zippp_ sound as it clicked into place, before Xabi slipped it into his pocket “You’re going back?”  
“Xabs--” 

“Why? Just- why?" Xabi's features wrinkled in confusion. "Don’t you like winning? Don’t you want to win?” 

“I do- but I like other things better,” Steven tucked his hands in the pockets of his training jacket as he rocked back on his heels. “Like - a no fuss dressing room.” 

“ Jode- Seriously?” 

“I didn’t appreciate being played as a pawn, either by you and Mourinho. Trying to wedge Casillas out because of his supposed lack of form and your mind games- what the hell is wrong with both of you?” 

“Stevie-” 

“I can’t believe _you,_ I mean, I came here because well... you,” Steven said, his eyes fixed on Xabi’s face, same but different, lines around the eyes a bit deeper, in his forehead, more pronounced. “We’re friends, we’ve always been friends, and strangely, we’ll still be friends, but your behaviour has been shocking.” 

“Mourinho wanted to win, and he’s the manager. So...”  
“There’s managing, and there’s what he did to Iker Casillas. If he’s off form, okay, work around that, but you know what he means to the club. He’s a talisman and Mourinho just wanted to discard him. Xabi, I'm - ” _disappointed_ , Steven thought, but couldn't bring himself to say it. 

Xabi didn’t say anything, as he looked out at the artificial lake in the distance, before he turned to face Steven again, an air of resignation than anything else. “I told him you wouldn’t work. In your own way, you’re cut from a similar cloth like Casillas, but with the complication of being English.” 

“ _Complication_?” and Steven didn’t know if he should be insulted. 

“English. You don’t dive when it will get you a result, mostly. You’re you, Steven, at the end of the day. You’re more a first club boy than a second or third club one. You're still tied to a club identity instead of individual greatness. You left Liverpool- and it was a wrench. It was a wrench for me too, but I got over it, because I want to win. But you... the wins don’t mean the same to you, because they aren’t Liverpool’s. I’ll notch them as wins, because at the end of the day, I need to win, to be on winning teams. But you--- you want a dressing room where everyone is for the club, not for their own glories. You can’t share a dressing room with Cristiano Ronaldo and not realise he’s there for his own immortality.” 

“I’m not out here doing sanitary collection either, mate.” 

“No,” Xabi had the grace to laugh. “You’re not, but you’re not Real- and not one to buy into all the rules of management.” 

“Mourinho is a knob.” 

“A knob who gets results.” 

Iker’s face flickered in Steven’s mind, the fact that they sat down in the stadium of the Bernabéu, and the tears in his eyes when he realised that he’d be pressed out of Real Madrid, stripped of his captaincy and his goalkeeping duties. 

“If results are measured by you breaking a man’s spirit, we shouldn't. I mean, I want to win, but- I’m sorry Xabi, I can’t do it. I’ve seen how you and Arbeloa operated, and thrived under Mourinho, but at the expense of everything else, trophies be damned. I- I’m going back to Liverpool.” 

Xabi stepped forward, and placed his hand on Steven’s shoulder, his eyes and voice warm with sympathy, “You might not be captain again, or the big man around town anymore. You might not be able to go back home again. When you love a place you need to leave it as fast as you can and never look back.” 

“I regret leaving Liverpool,” Steven admitted. “I wish- I wish I’d stayed. I loved playing with you, and you’re still the best midfielder I’ve ever played with, but -” and there was no other way to say it, but to say it, no matter if it hurt them both. “I shouldn’t have followed you here.” 

“Oh,” Xabi’s hand slipped off Steven’s shoulder, he staggered back a step as if he’d been hit. “That’s - that’s fine.” 

“I mean, you’re not going to be broken up about this, are you? You’ll be looking for another club before long, to have that final fling before you go into management or rule UEFA or something. But me- I’m going back home, to Anfield, if they’ll have me. If not on the field, I’ll be in the dressing room, or- or doing sanitation duties. Any way they’ll have me, I'm taking it.” 

“I’ll miss you,” Xabi said. 

“Until the next trophy, or that bloody _la decimá_. You’ll miss me when your brain stops thinking about the next win. You’ll be like, ‘Huh, that Gerrard bloke, whatever happened to him then? He used to be around here somewhere.’” 

“Stop it, Stevie,” Xabi protested, and his voice might have caught on Steven's name. “I’ll miss you. I will.” 

“Bye Xabi,” Steven tried to smile, “good luck and enjoy your wins,” and he meant it. 

“I will.” 

“Right,” Steven slipped his hands out of his pockets, and spread them wide. “Give us a hug then, like we did a bit of magic at the Kop. Or at the Bernabéu.” 

“Okay,” Xabi said after a few seconds, before they threw their arms around each other and clung together. It might have been like old times again, Xabi’s heart beating strong against his chest, they were about the same height, give or take a centimetre or two, and Steven rested his cheek against Xabi’s own. Warm, as if he just woke up from a lie in, not the heat pulsing off him like they did after ninety odd minutes of tearing up and down the field, and he smelt of lemons with a bit of bark. Strange but it worked. “I’ll visit,” Steven whispered. “I’m leaving Real Madrid, but I’m not leaving you. You’re still my friend, you daft plonker, although your behaviour has been shocking. Shocking.” 

“You’ll always be my skipper,” Xabi whispered, and Steven squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, before he trusted his voice to come out normally. 

“You’re still the best passer in the world, Xabs.”  
“I know." 

“Modest, too,” Steven quipped, feeling Xabi’s body shake with his laughter against his, and Steven joined in. They could always do this, even in the darkest times, laugh. 

They stayed there long enough for Xabi’s dog to come circling back, sniffing at her master’s shoe. When the dog yipped, they broke apart, and if both of them turned away from each other and wiped at their eyes - they never said. 

**Reunited, And It Feels So Good**

_Steven Gerrard and Jamie Carragher played in their first match today, Liverpool winning handily against Derby Rams at Anfield 4-1. When asked how it felt to be in back in the Kop, and being back in the Reds, Gerrard was all smiles, “It’s like I never left. The fans, the club- they're amazing, always amazing. I missed that, I really did.” Carragher kissed the side of Gerrard’s temple, before telling this reporter: “His penalty shot turned the game around, like it always does. It’s just good to have him back with the lads. It’s like he never left.”_

_What about Real and the Bernabeu, won’t Gerrard miss their winning ways, considering Liverpool is in a rebuilding stage, with them trying to get to the top four teams of the League, with Champions League in the offering next year?_  
“No, I had my jolly, and I’m back home,” he smiled, and you got the feeling that he meant it. “I’m where I need to be, where I should have been.”  
It’s nice to have you back in the Premier League, Captain Fantastic! 


End file.
